Guardian Angels
by RoverGirl
Summary: Set during the Tracy brothers' childhoods. Jeff Tracy struggles at Christmas time.


Author's Note: Posted on the second anniversary of Thunderbirds creator Gerry Anderson's sad passing. Rest in peace, Gerry. Thank you for giving us such a great series amongst others.

This is a non-profit fan based fiction. Please read & review. Thank you.

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><p>You stopped liking Christmas four years ago.<p>

You just can't bear the holiday.

It's just no longer the same as it used to be.

It's mid morning on a sunny December day.

Too busy, that's what you've told your boys for the past four years as your eyes allow the graphics of the current Tracy Corps project on your laptop access to your higher brain functions. You're trying to make heads and tails of what you're seeing.

You recently hired a graduate in physics who had done volunteer work for you during their PhD. Her work rate is astonishing and her creative outside-the-box thinking is taking your business into a new age of satellite design and technology. You don't remember her name right now, but it 's something old fashioned. You recall a conversation with her, her parents were historians or geologists or something like that. You forgot the rest of the conversation after she'd told you they had died in a car crash a decade back. Cruel maybe, but it didn't interest you that much, but these satellite specifications?

They're first-rate.

That's what drives you these days; work and plenty of it.

You spend on average twenty hours a day working, only stopping to sleep, grab a sandwich and a couple of smokes.

This has been your life for the past three years, oh you acknowledge your sons every now and then, but in the run up to December you become more distant than ever. Then in February it goes back to normal in time for Gordon's birthday.

"I've got this test schedule to organise, I've got to find someone with a background in specialist field of the week to assist with the next rocket launch, I'm helping build a new satellite."

You never really spend time with them.

You tried to initially, tried to be there for them, but it was hard.

Really hard.

Being around them hurt.

Of course everyone rallied around to help, and well, they've got their grandmother and their babysitter Alice to watch out for them and be there for them these days.

This year Alice has even brought over her fiancé, her twin sister and two brothers; the Tracy household is cram-backed full of people. Just as well this house is big enough and you're a self made billionaire.

Yet you're stuck away in your study, cut off from the rest of the planet, let alone your own family.

Everyone respects how busy you are, though they do wish you would take some time out over Christmas. Alice came in an hour ago to give you a plate of mince pies and a hot mug of coffee.

You greatly admire the young Australian, she has to put up with all the family dramas and mishaps.

She didn't say anything this time, merely acknowledged you were working, and you're not sure if that sits well with you or not.

The previous time she entered it was to tell you the boys had put the tree up and were beginning to decorate it. The blonde twenty-five year didn't say anything but it was an open invitation, you were welcome to join in with the fun if you wanted to. You could hear their excited shouts echoing down the hallway.

One look at the calender on the desk told you it was the firth of December, and that's when she said it.

A statement.

A fact.

"The boys aren't getting any younger."

Heck, Scott's already nine and you remember the day he was born crystal clear.

You smirk at the thought of that particular memory.

You'd legged it over to the military hospital he was born in, still in full flight gear, from the test hanger. You'd missed him being actually born but arrived in time to see Lucille sat up in bed holding a quiet little bundle in her arms.

You were a right mess, collapsing through the doorway out of breath, red faced, grasping at your sides as your ribs protested the stress you'd put them under. Lucille laughed at you full heartedly, almost as if your entrance was exactly how she'd scripted it to happen in her head. She knew you too well.

"Looks like Daddy has finally arrived," she'd told the newborn Scott, though he was more interested in dreaming and snoring than actually meeting this sweaty out of breath creature that was his father.

Was it worth the aching ribs?

Absolutely.

Scott had been the dream baby; so quiet and content though that was mostly because he loved sleep more than being awake, unless there was food up for grabs, then he was a nightmare!

Keeping him out of the kitchen had been quite the challenge, especially as he'd learnt to run first before he could walk.

How things changed over the course of a few years. Now there are five of them and no Lucille.

No Christmas either in your books; December is a nightmare in your household.

The excuses just get worse every single time to the point you actually yelled at Scott to shut up and back off a few days ago.

Yelling at the lad had been harsh. He's only nine and he was only trying to do the right thing and get his stubborn ass Dad to actually be a part of this year's family Christmas. Scott hadn't even defended himself, just accepted what his father had said and left without a word.

The silence hurt more than any argument ever could have and finally it made you accept that to your sons, Scott's the patriarch of the house even though it's actually you.

You know that one year however it won't just be your eldest asking you to join them for Christmas, to help them out, asking why you're so damm busy on the build up to the festive period, asking if it's because of Mom dying...the others will join in, if Gordon's anything to go by. From what Scott's described in the past he's a typical hot-headed red head.

Your guess is they'll stand together united or maybe get that used to their father being absent at Christmas that they'd forget he existed for that entire period of the year.

It was a shocking thought.

A horrible one.

You sound like Scrooge but you're not that mean old man from the narrative.

You're different, you've given your kids everything, they will never go hungry, they have all the latest gadgets and they're free to redecorate their rooms as many times as they want. They have an easy life, they could be playboys in their adult lives if they so wanted, living off of Daddy's billions.

You spoil them and you know it.

But you can afford to and it makes up for you not actually being there, right?

They have each other, they have their toys, great futures ahead of them and they have social lives.

Better social lives than you have with yours.

Alright, take out of the equation that the paparazzi are always lurking trying to get their photographs when they're out in public because they are technically 'celebrity children' therefore their lives are supposedly owned by the masses of press and critics; you do everything in your power to keep your young family out of the limelight.

They're spoilt. End of.

That's something you reminded Scott of when you shouted at him, a quiet voice at the back of your mind reminds you, shaming you.

You slam it down.

Satellite.

He's nine, that same voice reminds you.

It makes you pause.

Jeff Tracy.

Billionaire ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy.

A widower with five sons Jeff Tracy.

A workaholic father Jeff Tracy...who shouts at his eldest without due reason and neglects his children because he refuses to accept she's gone.

There's a picture of Lucille on your desk.

Your beautiful Lucille.

Your eyes brim with tears as you shut the screen down.

Forget work, this has to be death with right now.

You gaze upon the love of your life, leaning back in your chair, absently noting the mince pies and cold coffee and you know, as your heart clenches in a vice like grip, that Lucille would've done the same thing, perhaps have Gordon racing around at her feet and a firm hold on a wiggling Alan in her arms as she tended to her boys, keeping her boys and her big boy husband watered and fed as he worked, maybe with Scott and John in the study, sharing his love of aircraft and space by Scott building aircraft models like he so fondly did and John gazing through various astrology and astronomy books carpeting the floor with them, with the door wide open so they could hear Virgil's deft fingers playing a tune on the grand piano in the lounge as Alice sat with him teaching him a new tune or improvising with him.

You close your eyes, picturing that family unit scene.

One of complete bliss, and it saddens you that you can never give your boys that.

You sigh in defeat.

You can give them everything else in this world, anything that is materialistic, but you can't give them back their mother.

You can't give them that entire family unit, that happy family photo.

You can't give them your love or are you just not trying hard enough?

You open your eyes, staring long and grief stricken at her photo, letting your emotions you normally keep locked down come to the surface, let them consume you entirely in the closed sturdy door of your spacious, book filled and work focused study.

It feels claustrophobic with the heavy work presence as you let the silent tears flow unashamed.

The only shame you feel is that you shouted at Scott the way you did, shouted at him at all, he's never done anything to warrant what you did to him, he's just a kid! And it comes down to a few hard truths.

You wipe the tears away with the long sleeve of your crisp white shirt.

It's because you're cutting yourself off, because there is no escape from the knowledge and the feeling that Lucille is no longer here, because there's an empty dark murky black hole of an abyss in your work driven, technology ticking life. Because there's no loving wife, there's no soul mate, there's no mother, there's no love and you're struggling to move on without her so how the hell do you look after the boys if you can't even look after your own emotions?

You're lost.

You don't understand.

In front of the boys you have to be strong, you can't show any weakness as it'll upset them, it'll make them lose faith in you, but you're losing them anyway, Jeff Tracy!

What sort of parent are you?

Part of your duty as their father is to love them, to nurture them, to deal with their problems when they occur.

You're a sod for duty, you're a military man, an astronaut. You know what duty means and stands for. You know that a space shuttle requires protocols and procedures and appropriate responses, so why can't you preform this duty which is the one that stays with you for life?

Is it really that difficult to admit to your sons you miss her too?

"Help me, Lucille," you mutter to the photograph, "please help me, I don't know what to do."

Scott, John and Alan have her eyes you notice.

You've noticed it before but never quite like this.

Lucille was a very attractive and beautiful lady. You were so lucky, a very lucky dog, Jeff Tracy.

She makes you smile for the first time in ages and you lean forward, resting your chin on your right hand, admiring her beauty, picking out what she gave to your energetic boys.

Virgil's the spitting image of her except for her eyes. Lucille had gorgeous light brunette hair and Virgil is the same.

In the photograph her hair is cut into a fashionable style.

It was taken right at the start of her pregnancy with Scott. She didn't have a bump at that point but pregnancy really suited her. In each of her pregnancies she glowed and always looked so fresh and happy.

You have photographs of her during all her pregnancies, perhaps one day you'll show the boys when they're old enough to understand the significance, perhaps at different stages, Scott, John and Virgil together and then Gordon and Alan when they're older.

They need to see their mother, know who she was and what she did through your eyes. Lucille was a genius of her own accord. She was a brilliant artist and musician who had a passion for the stars. Lucille was world renowned for her work, preformed all over the globe, especially whilst pregnant.

She claimed that pregnancy enhanced her abilities so it was no wonder the boys took after her so much.

You keep looking at the photograph.

She's wearing a tailored blue shirt top and skirt set which brings out her eyes.

It's your favourite, taken on the second anniversary of the night you asked her for her hand in marriage. You'd been fretting about it for weeks, so much so you nearly passed out from the shock that you'd actually manned up and asked her to marry you! And that she said yes!

Yes, you will definitely have to tell the boys about that; they'll love the story.

Possibly this is the way forward? Sharing stories about the woman you loved with your boys so they would understand who exactly their mother was as a person, why you loved her so much? Why it hurt so much when she died?

They'd certainly gotten their looks from her, all of them would grow up into incredibly handsome men, there was no doubt in your mind.

Your ears pick up on something.

A scrapping sound and you look away from the photo towards the door.

There's someone outside trying to get in.

Parental instincts going into overdrive thinking something was terribly wrong, you leap out of your chair and open the door in record time!

You pause, taking in the sight before, breathing a sigh of relief.

You have no idea what just came over you to think and react that way as you reach down to take your superhero costumed boy into your arms.

"Something wrong, Daddy?" asks a quiet voice as you scoop up your middle son and hold him in a snug warm hug.

You smile at him, bad emotions gone in an instant.

"Just missing your mother, Virgil," you explain as you take him to your chair, sitting back down.

Virgil immediately snuggles into your lap, resting his head against your chest. Your arms stay wrapped around him.

He doesn't question your actions at all.

It's been a while since you last did this with him; he's seven now, that quiet voice reminds you.

"I miss her too," he admits.

Your arms instinctively hold him tighter as once again your gaze falls upon her picture.

"That's her, right there," you tell him, pointing out the picture.

You feel him smile.

"Mom's pretty," he comments.

"Yeah, and you're just like her, in so many ways."

"Is that why you keep pushing us away?" Virgil asks, turning to face you.

"No, Virgil," you answer honestly, "it's because I miss her so badly I don't know what to do still."

"You can talk to us, works both ways," Virgil offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

You chuckle.

You love that sparkle in his green eyes; that sparkle is present in both his own and Lucille's. It's an art thing you realise.

It's heartfelt, it's warm and cosy and part of you thinks that Lucille is tugging your strings.

Lucille believed in guardian angels, angels who intervened only when they were asked for. As Lucille believed, asking for help was not a weakness but a sign of strength and there was nothing wrong with it, divine or human. As she pointed out once,humans need a nudge or a helping hand at times. She'd used the example of Scott falling over as a toddler, how she or yourself were there to help pick him up and kiss his sore knee better.

Perhaps she's become your guardian angel, watching out for you all.

You gesture again to the picture and he looks.

"She was pregnant with Scott when that was taken," you tell him.

"Really?" he gasps in surprise.

"Really," you confirm, enjoying his company, "I've got photos of your mother pregnant with all of you."

"Can you show us one day?" Virgil asks, pleadingly.

The boy's keen, you're not surprised in the slightest, but you can't quite get your head round just how easy this is.

Maybe Lucille is helping you afterall, that and you made such a mountain out of a mole of it.

"I'll dig the photographs out later on, that's a promise," you tell him and you mean it.

You're not letting go of your family, not ever again and make a mental note to tell your relevant staff you're taking Christmas off afterall.

"Can we do the tree first, Dad?" Virgil asks.

"Sure, Son. I'll come and help you boys out. I take it that's why you came to get me."

It's an assumption and the only logical reason you think why Virgil would come looking for you.

"Sort of," he admits, "I made an angel to put on the tree."

For the first time you see what he has in his glitter covered hands.

He shows it to you proudly and it causes your heart to bubble with pride.

It's realistic looking paper mache angel figurine, her face painted a soft skin tone colour with rosy cheeks, big blue eyes, a big smile and long brown locks. A halo made out of silver craft wire sits perched on her head and she's beautifully clothed with silky white-silver fabric for robes. Her wings made out of white feathers, which you hope have come from either a craft bag or a feather duster, and she's been sprinkled with silver glitter for a final touch.

Virgil has worked exceptionally hard on this angel, the effort shows.

"She's fantastic, Virgil. Great work, Son," you tell him proudly.

"Would you like to put her on the tree, Dad?" he asks you quietly.

With a quick nod of your head, a smile lights up his face and he leaps off your lap.

"Let's go then!" he tells you, racing to the doorway, "come on, Dad!"

"I'm coming," you chuckle as you stand up, and for once in a long while, you actually feel like a father again.

"Come on!" he urges, waving his free hand frantically, "you know what Gordon and Alan are like!"

You laugh out loud as you join him at the door, offering him a hand that he takes, only so he can drag you all the way to the lounge.

"Come on, Dad!"

You laugh at him; Virgil's behaving like Scott again.

Just as you round the final corner before going into the lounge, Scott appears, dressed up as Batman without the cowl, beaming at his sibling.

"Wondering where you went, Virg," Scott tells him.

Your eldest looks at you and the smile falters.

You can understand why.

"Virgil, go ahead," you tell him, "me and Scott need a talk," you explain.

Virgil looks at you confused and then at Scott then back to you looking even more confused.

"Go on, go tell your brothers," you urge.

Virgil smiles through his confusion then leaves, giving you the angel before he goes.

You understand; it's his insurance that you actually enter the decoration strewn room.

Your gaze follows his departing form, noticing Scott do the same, watching his brother's back.

He turns to you.

You return his gaze, kneeling down to his height in the process.

You can't read anything in his face, unusual for Scott. Normally there's something, anything to indicate what he's thinking...but not this time.

"I'm sorry, Scott. I should never have shouted at you the way I did. I'm so caught up in my work I not there for you and your brothers."

He smiles.

You're confused.

"I know, but I can see that's about to change now," he replied with a smile.

He points to the angel in your hand.

You're caught off guard as he throws himself at you, wrapping his arms tightly around you and within a second you return it, holding him tight in your arms, feeling every single thing he means to convey with one big display of emotion.

You've got your boys back.

You've got Scott back.

And they've got you.

"I knew you didn't mean it," Scott tells you, "you just miss Mom."

"She'd be proud of you, Scott," you inform him, knowing every word to be true.

You pat him on his back, mindful of the angel.

"We have you, Dad," he says.

"And I have you all," you reply, smiling proudly.

This, you remember, is what it means to be a parent.

Unleashing each other from the hug, you stand up, keeping one hand on his shoulder and lead the way into the lounge to a scene of utter chaos.

Decorations are scattered across the floor, the table, the seats, the walls, the everywhere!

It looks like someone let off a firework in a Christmas factory, or more likely let Gordon and Alan loose with the tinsel and fake snow.

But it's taking shape and the tree has all its tinsel onboard.

A mixture of blues, golds, silvers, reds and greens; it covers the whole spectrum of colours and looks amazing.

"We've haven't put the baubles on yet," John explains to you.

You look at him and smile; yes he's in a superhero costume.

You look at all of them in turn.

Scott as Batman.

John as Buzz Lightyear.

Virgil as Superman.

Gordon as Aquaman.

Alan as The Flash.

Alice is dressed up as Batgirl and she hands you a Viking helmet as you head over to the tree.

"Now you're Thor," Gordon points out excitedly.

Their happiness and delight radiates out from them, hitting you from all directions.

How could you miss out on this?

As you reach up and place the Angel on top of the tree you're positive you hear Lucille's voice.

"I'm watching out for you."

Jeff Tracy the workaholic who ignores his family dies this day.

You smile.

END


End file.
